


Body Talk

by impossibleamypond



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M, angry sex that's not actually angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibleamypond/pseuds/impossibleamypond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s deeper than that; it’s personal now, and that makes all the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body Talk

When her hand flies out, he flinches, thinking that she’ll slap him clean across the face, but her hand connects with his shoulder and shoves him backwards so forcefully he loses his balance.

“What the –“

“Shut up,” she snaps, fingers twisting around the collar of his cut as she draws the length of her body to along his. The grate in her voice is fueled by anger, but he can hear the scrape of desperation mixed in the words that fan out against his jaw, white hot and spreading.

The tips of her fingers brush along his collarbone and her gaze flicks up to his, their eyes meeting briefly.  It’s enough, though – enough to ignite a spark he didn’t even knew existed until this moment. Sure, he’s always thought she was pretty – gorgeous, even – and he’s always liked her well enough. But this? This is a surprising turn of events.

One that he’s apparently okay with because suddenly, it’s not just her standing too close to him to be civil. No, he’s pulling her towards him, a hand flying to the back of her neck and drawing her closer, bending her head towards his own so that their lips meet in a clash of teeth and hot breath that sends a shiver down his spine. His fingers curl into the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck, and it’s all he can do to refrain from groaning when the tips of her nails drag along the back of his head.

The kiss is hardly romantic. It’s wet and sloppy and frantic, with too much tongue and an undercurrent of anger that’s probably not that healthy, but neither can quite muster the strength to push away or pull back. If anything, it draws them in deeper, that tiny spark of fury that’s suddenly a full blown flame between them, prompting shaking hands and scrambling fingers to pull at zippers and tug at buttons, to slip out of sleeves and toss leather and cotton to the floor. Mouths stray, his slipping along the long column of her neck and hers lingering a little too long on his collarbone, teeth gently scraping along the bone.

The moment he steps out of his jeans, he slips a hand under her thigh and hoists her up, her legs wrapping around his waist long enough for him to switch them around so that she’s the one pressed against the wall. Her back collides with it hard enough that it knocks a picture off the wall. It’s the sound of the cheap frame cracking and the glass shattering that snaps him back into a reality that isn’t fueled by desperation and anger and desire.

His gaze moves to her swollen lips kissed raw by his own and he swallows hard. “Tara –“

“Don’t,” she whispers with a shake of her head. “Please. I need –“

This.

_You._

He doesn’t know what the final word is because he doesn’t care. He meets her mouth somewhere in the middle, the kiss slower, a little less aggressive but no less heated. His tongue drags along her lower lip slowly and she angles her head, opening her mouth. Hands move slower, with purpose, drawing out little gasps and long moans with each touch, pinch, scrape. What little fabric remains between them is discarded easily enough, kicked off into some dark corner of an already semi-dark room without much flare or effect or effort, really.

She slides a hand down the center of his chest, fingers wrapping around him and guiding him into her until there’s nothing left between them. For a moment, there’s silence, halted breaths still caught in their throats until she exhales, the air flooding into his mouth. If he wasn’t dizzy already he would be now. It’s cliché, sure, but this is different than before. It’s not just the desperate scramble of lost souls in search for a grounding connection to reality; it’s more than just the need to _feel_ something other than hollow and caged and utterly alone. It’s deeper than that; it’s personal now, and that makes all the difference.

The heels of her feet press into the base of his spine, digging deeper with each thrust. Short and swallow, long and deep, there’s no pattern or rhythm to the snap of their hips, just the gentle slapping of flesh on flesh as he fucks her against the wall. When she starts to slip down the wall, she hooks her arm around his shoulder to keep herself upright and it’s that little motion that makes him lock eyes with her. He doesn’t break contact when she moans, and she can’t help but smile when she clenches around him, drawing out a long suffering groan.

His mouth latches onto the exposed skin, pacing wet, open-mouthed kisses that grow more and more frantic as his thrusts become more urgent. The hand on her hip slides over the top of her thigh and angles downward as he reaches between them, the pad of his thumb finding her clit and teasing. Her entire body tenses and her breathy “fuck” is lost on him because her nails are cutting half moons into the top of his back and it’s all he can do to not come right then and there.

She’s barely breathing, just panting out little gasps of encouragement, grinding against him and his fingertips with everything she’s got until a cry breaks from her mouth and she slams her head back against the wall, rattling the light fixture hanging over their heads. Her body goes rigid with tension, every muscle clenched tightly, her heels practically digging into his buttocks. She stares up at the ceiling, all glassy eyed and panting, each heavy exhalation a driving force behind his thrusts, which grow shallower and more abrupt until he comes a few seconds later.

Stillness gives way to motion as they go through them: disentangling from one another, collecting clothes, slipping into them. As she rifles through her purse in search for her keys, he thinks about offering her a place to stay for the night, but when their eyes meet again, it's gone. That fire, that heat - it's vanished, replaced by a broken twisted sadness that would be heartbreaking if he didn't see it in himself every day in the mirror. 

So they say nothing because really.

There's nothing left to say.


End file.
